The lead up is different this time. It’s quieter. I’m not sobbing. I sit here with your sister and most parts of the day I feel fine. It’s only in those random moments, those echoes of memory — and I still wish I could feel more of you. I miss the things I missed of you.
Your sister is sleeping. I am full of love and she fills my days. Our puppy is a constant handful. I have glimpses of the toddler years. I think about you as a two year old. I remember the racks of toddler shorts and button-down shirts. Even today, I still think about what you would be wearing, and the little boy laundry I’ll never have to do.
It’s quieter this year and I don’t know what this means. I can only find my tears when I write about you. I wish I could always be writing about you. I wish I knew better how to miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
